Maybe
by Coyote Soupus
Summary: "But as he looks down at Clara, and she looks back up at him and grins, he lets himself smile back."
1. Maybe

The Doctor is astounded at how he just can't keep away from her.

It's nothing conscious. He doesn't do it on purpose, it just happens—he's fiddling with the console and she pops up next to him to watch like she always does, and before he knows it he's guiding her hands around the bits and bobs and explaining their functions. The look of both concentration and fascination on her face warms him from head to toe every time.

Or, on other occasions, they'll be walking through some far-flung civilization admiring the flora and fauna and he'll realize that they had begun to walk arm-in-arm at one point and he hadn't even noticed. He doesn't mind the proximity as much as he probably should.

It's like he's physically incapable of keeping himself from touching her, even innocently, and while it's not the most distressing thing he's ever encountered it does befuddle him.

Another habit he's taken up is the kissing—little pecks every now and again, chaste things on the hand or cheek or forehead. Sometimes it's the relief of seeing her alive—he _did_ watch her die twice—and other times it's completely out of the blue. She'll just be pottering around in the kitchen with her soufflés and he'll announce himself by leaning curiously over her shoulder, kissing her on the cheek and asking what's burning. (He usually gets a swat for that but it's worth it.)

Naturally he doesn't afford himself the time to think about it too deeply. He's afraid of what he might find, and the consequences of it.

Everyone he's ever loved has died, or been left behind, or simply left. Admitting to_love_ of any kind would be making a commitment, and it's still much too soon to open himself up so fully.

But as he looks down at Clara, and she looks back up at him and grins, he lets himself smile back.

Maybe.


	2. Flying and Falling

So he'd like to kiss her.

The Doctor tries not to make it too obvious, but it's extremely hard just after they've returned from an adventure and they're sweaty and tired and, more often than not, laughing, and she's skipping around the console like she's got energy to match his and her eyes are so bright and her smile so big and _God_ he'd just really like to kiss her.

Sure, they've kissed before but that wasn't Clara, this Clara, and he isn't sure if that counts or not because she doesn't remember. _He_ certainly does.

(It's not as if he could _forget_ the way it had felt, her hands pressed against his face and neck and her mouth pressed to his and the way she'd pressed up against him fully, like she kissed with her whole body—there had been a lot of pressing involved—and he'd just really like to experience that again, to see if it was even better when he could return it, please and thank you.)

He'd just really like to kiss her, to see if it would feel like flying and falling and every constellation he'd ever seen swirling behind his eyes. He'd like to see if she kissed the same as the other Clara had, or if this were something different altogether. He'd like to run his fingers through her hair and sleep next to her and rest his chin on top of her head and hold her so she could feel his hearts beating in his chest, and the Doctor figures that he'd like so many things at this point that he might as well say that he likes _her_.

Yes, that works. He likes her, Clara Oswald, and he'd like to do a lot of things with and to her, and he simply _really _**_needs_**_ to kiss her_.

So he does. It's after an adventure, when they're sweaty and tired and she's positively glowing, and he doesn't let himself think too much, just moves forwards, frames her face in his hands, and kisses her. He's absurdly gentle, not because he's afraid he'll break her but because his hearts are going so fast inside his chest that anything more and he feels that he'd pass out.

And it turns out that it is like flying and falling, and the starbursts are all that he expected, and she does kiss like the other Clara except much more timid than he'd expected from her, her hands lightly touching him on the shoulders as she gradually returns it.

And he finds that, now that he's kissed her, he doesn't want to stop.

* * *

_Author's Note: This is saved as 'well then' in my computer. _

_On another note, this story is basically going to be where I dump any 'decent' (I use the term very loosely) drabbles I write in this style, simply because I feel there's going to be a lot. These two are slowly murdering me from the inside, but in such a fashion as to make me die grinning like an idiot. So yeah. Also I'm American. I'll apologize (apologise?) for that now. _


	3. Home

Domestic life, Clara finds, does not suit the Doctor at all.

They've had a little mishap with the TARDIS, and by mishap she means that the TARDIS up and left them in 1920s Paris, France, without a warning. They'd stepped out of the time ship, Clara practically bouncing because this era has always struck her fancy, when the cloister bells gonged from inside, the doors slammed shut, and the TARDIS faded away before their very eyes, driver-less.

Clara supposes they were lucky, because the Doctor happens to get around a bit and he knows some people. They're in a flat that's a reasonable size for two people, if said two people happened to be smitten and on their honeymoon. Needless to say, the Doctor sleeps on the couch, if he needs to sleep at all—which she's never actually seen, and thus isn't sure that he actually does.

The cozy flat doesn't suit the Time Lord in the least. He's grown accustomed to his home being bigger on the inside and practically endless, and the fact that they're stuck firmly in one era, on one planet, seems to slowly be driving him stir-crazy. He comes in at all hours of the night like a stray cat, and Clara's taken to waiting up for him with a book, just to be sure that he comes back at all. As untouchable as he seems to think he is, he _is_ made of flesh and bone and God knows what she would do if something happened to him. He teases her about it, but she thinks he's secretly flattered at her concern. She goes out of her way to make snarky comments after that, just so his ego doesn't get too inflated.

And on they go for a sizable amount of time—one month, and then two, and still no TARDIS.

They're easier in each other's company now than they would have been otherwise, because the TARDIS is big enough that they would never have been in such close proximity all the time. Now he's used to seeing her in the mornings, accustomed to her sleepily mumbled greetings or, more often, mumbled obsenities at the 'bloody alien' and his 'bloody morning person attitude'. He really should keep a closer eye on her in some of the taverns they visit—the extraterrestrial curses she's picked up make even him blush.

She, too, is used to seeing him in the mornings, and used to the gaps of time in the middle of the day or the evenings when she sees neither hide nor hair of him, and used to him springing back into the flat in the middle of the night like he's got energy for days. He probably does.

They explore Paris, of course, but there's only so long that it feels like a vacation. Pretty soon it starts to feel almost like home—Clara's got a little cafe that she likes to go to, and a few familiar faces that she chats with at the market. The Doctor's commandeered the kitchen table for his own slapdash gizmos, and it's covered in bits and bobs that he's gotten God knows where—things like dissassembled bicycles, telegraphs with strange additions and adjustments he's put on, and even a half-constructed phonograph with its insides spilling out onto the wood.

One time Clara finds him completely slumped over his table, cheek pressed into the wood as he snores. She stares at the strange sight for a moment, frozen like she expects him to stir at the sound of her very heartbeat, but he doesn't so much as flutter an eyelash. It turns out that when the Doctor sleeps, while rarely, it's so heavily that he doesn't stir even as she struggles to support his weight into the bedroom. He falls ungracefully onto the mattress, willowy limbs taking up almost the entire bed intended for two. She removes his shoes and places his feet at the end of the bed, wrestling him out of his purple coat—he'd probably throw a fit if he wrinkled it—and loosening the ashen bow tie. She sets the coat nicely out on a chair, folding her arms and sighing at the unconscious Time Lord.

He mumbles something incoherent and turns onto his side, curling around the pillow, and Clara can't help but smile. He's like a big kid sometimes. A grown-up, ridiculous, impossibly old kid with a bow tie.

Good thing she's used to dealing with kids.

* * *

The TARDIS comes back eventually, of course, just like the Doctor (claims he) knew it would. Clara, to be honest, is a bit sad to be leaving their little home, but she's considerably less sad when the Doctor tells her about this magnificent planet where the waters shine like they're liquid diamond and the moons are literally golden in the sky. The blue time ship opens its doors for them, almost like an apology, and the Doctor's so ecstatic to be back where he belongs that he doesn't notice the knowing look Clara shoots the time rotor, nor the particularly smug-sounding humming of the console.

He _pretends_ not to notice the way Clara touches the metal of the railing, like she's just as glad to be back as he is. There's a part of him that says it's where she belongs, too.

He's got no objections to that.

* * *

_Author's Note: Gratuitous fluff ahoy! Thanks to all the people who followed, favorited, and reviewed, and I hope I don't disappoint! Your support is greatly appreciated. I probably wrote this chapter five times over before I was satisfied with it. I even had a version where the Doctor got friend-zoned. It was **great**. _


	4. Rain

The TARDIS lands with a rumbling boom, and the Doctor and Clara slip around a bit, Clara grabbing onto the railing behind her while the Doctor grasps at the console. They both look towards the doors but Clara is the first to make a move, practically skipping to them. She turns and glances at the Doctor and he simply nods and grins, and she returns it before pulling the door open.

She's met by an absolute deluge. The entire world is wet and shining and gray, and the Doctor makes a disappointed noise from behind her. Rain runs in streams bordering rivers down the gutters of the streets and the water comes from above in sheets. Clara screws her face up as the wind throws some of the droplets into her eyes, and the Doctor says with a grumble, "Figures." He brightens, already moving around the console. "Don't worry, Clara, I can fix this. A day or so into the future should do it. Where d'you want to—" He turns to look at her only to see that Clara isn't there any more, and the door is hanging open. "Clara?"

He runs to the door in alarm, peering out into the street in time to see Clara hop with a cheer into the gutter-river, water splashing up around her feet and probably soaking into her boots. The material of her jacket has darkened with the rain and her hair is dripping already, strings plastered across her face as she turns and jumps again. He watches with a kind of incredulous disbelief as she kicks with a whoop. "Clara?"

"Well what're you standing there for, chin?" She turns and places her hands on her hips, grinning despite the fact that chilly rain is probably seeping into every inch of her clothing in that moment. "Only way to enjoy the rain is to jump in the puddles."

"You'll catch a cold," he protests, refusing to move from the threshold of the TARDIS where he's perfectly safe and dry, and he'd like to remain that way, thank you very much. "Come back inside."

She turns up her nose. "Oh, you're _that_ sort. No, thanks."

The Doctor splutters. "I'm—what sort am I, then?" He folds his arms across his chest, frowning.

She smiles—smirks, really—and steps up onto the pavement, walking until she can look up at him. He fidgets but doesn't budge from his spot, doing his best to look every inch the disgruntled and stubborn Time Lord. He apparently doesn't succeed—or maybe he succeeds too well—because her smirk stretches into a grin. She takes his hand and tries to pull him out of the TARDIS, and he gives a very un-Time Lord squeak and grabs onto the opposite door, gripping it like it's a lifeline. "Clara!" he complains, and she drops his hand so he can retreat a few paces. "I'd rather not go for a _swim_," he says pointedly. She, very maturely, pokes her tongue out at him.

"A little rain never hurt anyone," says Clara, and he gives a derisive sniff.

"I beg to differ," he mutters. She raises her eyebrows at him, and he fidgets again. "Oh, don't," he groans, but she only shifts her weight onto one hip and folds her arms, pursing her lips. "Clara, please." He's begging now. He can't stand the _look_. She knows this, which could be why she employs it so often.

She's merciful this time and lets it drop. What she does do is about ten times worse—she steps into the TARDIS, little rivulets of water dripping onto the metal, and tweaks his bow tie playfully. The Doctor tenses like a spring. She notices and scoffs a little. "You know what you need?" She's got a glint in her eye that he either likes or really, really doesn't. He doesn't quite know which it is right now. Clara leans up onto her tiptoes, dangerously close, and the Doctor can't summon up enough saliva to swallow. "You need to _relax_."

"And—" His voice is a hoarse croak, and this time he manages to swallow past the wet cement in his mouth. "And this is supposed to help me, is it?" He's much too aware of the hand still toying with his bow tie, the other resting in the middle of his chest, just between and below his hearts. She quirks a smile up at him and his brain damned near shorts out. The Doctor thinks he makes an incoherent little 'uuh' sound but he can't be quite sure.

In his currently shorted-out state, he offers no resistance as she slides her hand into his and pulls him out of the TARDIS like a confused little lamb obeying its shepherd. The ice of the rain sliding down the back of his shirt snaps him out of his confused spell, and he makes a noise of protest and tries to retreat. Clara's grip is firm, however, so he hikes his shoulders up to his ears and screws his face up unhappily. "Am I enjoying myself yet?" he asks drily and Clara laughs, making him feel a little better. Not much, but a little.

"You look ridiculous," she comments, touching her fingers to her mouth to self-consciously hide her smile—he looks like a tortoise like that, trying to withdraw into his purple shell with a thoroughly grumpy expression. The rain has flattened his flippy hair so the little flip in the front repeatedly drips water into his eyes. He blinks rapidly whenever this happens, making Clara snort into laughter again.

"Glad you're enjoying yourself at my expense," says the Doctor, frowning, and Clara immediately tries to make amends, albeit with an entirely unapologetic smile.

"Oh, come on, it's a little funny," she appeals, and he shakes his head.

"No," he deadpans, "not funny. Not even a little." She only stares at him with that smile, and his mouth begins to twitch without his permission in response. As soon as he realizes this he turns his head away with a huff, but Clara's already seen. She points at him knowingly.

"Aha, see?" she says smugly. "It's a little funny." His mouth does the twitching thing again no matter how he tries to fight it. Eventually he gives in and turns back to her with an entirely over-exaggerated smile that looks a little painful.

"There," he says through gritted teeth. "I'm smiling. Whee, fun, yes. I enjoy freezing my fingers off in the rain. Can we go back inside now?"

Clara sighs. "Drama queen," she says, and he rolls his eyes, letting the sarcastic smile drop. "Yes, we can go back inside." He's begun to drag her eagerly back to the TARDIS when she digs her heels in. "One last thing."

He huffs and turns back to her, rolling his eyes again. "What is i—"

The Doctor only has a second to register how close she's gotten before she's on her tiptoes again and kissing him. His mouth, in the middle of speaking when she did, is left completely vulnerable. She's got him by the lapels, undeterred by the flailing that has become the norm for whenever he's kissed, and gradually he brings his hands to her waist and pinches his eyes shut. Flying and falling makes a reappearance. He's able to forget about the rain creeping down his spine, the water seeping into his shoes, the absolute misery of his sodden purple jacket weighing too heavy on his frame. It all becomes irrelevant.

It doesn't last as long as he'd like it to, and he's only just begun to kiss her back when she pulls away. Very much the dazed lamb once more, the Doctor blinks down at her, absently noting somewhere in the back of his mind that her cheeks are flushed and her dark eyes are bright and he's fairly certain that she's never looked better, even with the rain taken into account. Somewhere in his center there's a glowing warmth where the cold of the rain can't reach, and the sputtering embers in his stomach rear into a flame when she smiles up at him, and it's softer than anything he's seen. She takes his hand again and they walk back to the TARDIS, the Doctor stumbling over his own feet because he feels disjointed and bubbly and it's the strangest yet most pleasant thing he's ever experienced.

_Note to self,_ he thinks later, when they've opted for a lazy day and she's curled against him in her pajamas, her hair mussed and her face clear of make-up, paying rapt attention to the movie on the screen and not noticing that the Doctor's not watching the movie at all. _Be grumpy more often_.


	5. Slip of the Tongue

The Doctor wonders if there's a way he can erase the last thirty seconds from existence. His face is so scarlet that he honestly believes it will stay that way, and he can feel the blush like it's blooming _everywhere—_his ears, his neck, his shoulders. In contrast, his hands have gone tingly at the tips and clammy, and whatever moisture that used to be in his mouth certainly isn't there any more. He's thrust into a vortex of horror and humiliation, and if there were a way he could reach out and scoop the words he just said back into his mouth, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

Where the Doctor's gone so red that he looks like he's about to erupt, Clara's left with no color to be found. Her face is pale and she stares at the Doctor like he's said something at once blasphemous, confusing, and of uncertain hilarity. An uncertain smile flickers at the edges of her mouth, but as the seconds drag by it fades into utter confusion. She'd thought he was joking. If only.

All at once it overwhelms him, and he reels backwards to put the console between them; for once Clara doesn't follow him around it, but he can feel her gaze locked onto him and it only makes the heat more oppressive. He can barely get a firm grip on the wibbly lever because his hands have taken to trembling, and nervous energy pours into him from absolutely nowhere—he feels like he's running on an adrenaline high, and the erratic beating of his hearts in his ears isn't helping in the least. He wants to run—never before has the instinct been more acute, to _get the hell out of Dodge—_but his feet are like cinderblocks and won't budge. He focuses the intensity of his gaze on one scuff mark on the console, and marvels somewhere in the back of his mind that the metal doesn't burn cherry-red.

Then a hand touches him, lightly, just between and below his shoulder blades, and the Doctor would be lying if he said that he didn't about jump out of his skin. He doesn't turn but rather tenses until he's a very lifelike statue. Clara, taking the hint, withdraws her hand and hovers a polite distance away. He can see her uncomfortable expression in the glass of the time rotor and it makes him vaguely queasy. Not wishing to see it, he pinches his eyes shut.

"Doctor...?" Maybe if he pretends he can't hear her. "Doctor." What he wouldn't give to have a convenient 'shut down' option. "Come on, chin boy, talk to me." _Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens_—

Clara then does something very unexpected.

She hugs him.

Everything stops. He opens his eyes and glances down at the arms wrapped around his torso from behind, feels her cheek pressed to the spot in between his shoulder blades, and really doesn't know what to think. Clara simply nuzzles closer, shifting so their bodies are parallel and she's got her hands crossed over his hearts, one for each side. A few long seconds pass in which they both remain totally still. The entire room seems to be holding its breath.

The Doctor tentatively places one of his hands over her own, and she smiles into his back. His mouth flickers into a tiny smile without his realizing, and a kind of happy warmth blossoms from the pit of his stomach, replacing the burning heat of embarrassment with something gentler, sweeter... and, to him, as terrifying as it is intoxicating. She can probably feel his hearts through his waistcoat, hear them through his back—they're certainly going fast enough.

Clara stands on tiptoe so she can rest her chin on his shoulder, and her breath at his ear makes him turn his head. She doesn't smile, just meets his gaze evenly before pressing a kiss to his cheek. His tiny smile falters and his eyes widen, and then he's smiling wider with a definite rosy tinge returning to his cheeks. She pulls back and gives him an uncertain look, and he thinks maybe she's just as scared of this as he is—and then it's gone, replaced by a grin and a wrinkled nose of amusement. "God, those cheekbones," she mutters before withdrawing. He hears her feet patter up the stairs and into the corridors of the TARDIS.

The Doctor returns his gaze to the console but now he's fairly sure that he looks like an absolute idiot with a grin so wide that it threatens to split his face in half. He whistles a happy tune as he strolls around the console, preparing the TARDIS for flight with a bounce in his step.

That had turned out better than he'd imagined. He should have accidentally told Clara that he loved her _ages_ ago.


	6. If I Lose Myself

Clara's crying. The Doctor hates the sound immediately. Crying means sadness, and he is inclined to automatically despise anything that makes Clara sad. He also hates that sadness isn't a thing he can physically hound until it leaves her alone—sadness is something only Clara can chase away. That doesn't mean he can't help.

He cautiously taps at her door and it swings open, which is funny because he hadn't knocked hard enough for it to swing all the way back like it had. The Doctor casts a funny glance at the ceiling but he's got other matters to deal with, matters that don't include the TARDIS' mood swings. He takes a few steps into her room, newly decorated and assigned with an ornate nameplate on the door.

"Clara?" He squints through the dimness. The crying is muffled and quiet, nowhere near the deep, gasping sobs of someone putting on theatrics or crying just because they can—it's muted sniffles and the occasional raspy gasp, the crying of someone who honestly can't hold it in any longer. It's also the crying of someone who doesn't want to be heard. The thought makes his hearts ache. He taps his chest once in concern—they're not supposed to do that—before directing his attention to the bed pushed against the far wall when Clara speaks.

"Go 'way," she mumbles. He does the opposite and takes a few more steps until he's hovering uncertainly in the center of the room.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, fidgeting uncomfortably because it's been so long since he's done anything remotely like comforting a companion. It's not the sort of thing he tends to do, never has done. He's always been rubbish at it, but something keeps him pinned there in that room, wringing his hands and darting his eyes every which way.

"Not really," says the mound of blankets and pillows atop Clara's bed. Her voice is shaky and slightly choked—she bites back a hiccup. "I can—I can handle it."

The aching in his hearts morphs into a painful squeezing sensation, and the Doctor makes a note to get that checked out later. He sways back and forth indecisively for a moment before making up his mind and moving to perch at the end of her bed. He pats his knees, puffing his cheeks up and looking awkwardly around the room—Clara has gone still, and seems to be holding her breath.

He haltingly reaches out a hand and pats her shoulder through the quilt. "There, there." Inwardly, he winces. This was probably a very bad idea.

The blanket moves a little, and her dark, red-rimmed eyes peek out at him from the recesses of her quilt. He can't see anything other than her eyes and a sliver of skin, a tendril of hair falling across her face. The Doctor puffs his cheeks up again like a socially awkward chipmunk and looks away, placing his hands back on his knees and tapping his feet on the rug. But he doesn't move—he stays right where he is, perfectly content to remain there for as long as it takes.

Clara sits up a little and the comforter falls away from her torso. Her hair is a mess and her nose and eyes are reddened from crying, her dark eyes shining in the light from the hallway. She watches him strangely, like she doesn't quite understand him. He darts a glance at her and smiles, and it's small and soft and very, very uncertain. She wipes at her cheeks and sighs. "You're not going to leave until I tell you, are you?"

"No, no, you don't—I didn't mean—" He fumbles, his eyebrows raising in shock. "You don't have to tell me anything, Clara. I only want to help," the Doctor finishes warmly, wringing his hands around one another and giving another distressed smile.

She eyes him uncertainly. He sees a tear that she missed and reaches out to wipe it away without thinking; they both freeze like that, the Doctor's eyes widening and Clara going stiff. Swallowing, he gently rubs the pad of his thumb over her cheek, just under her eye, his fingers lingering at her hairline without his permission. Her mouth parts softly as she stares at him with furrowed brows, and the Doctor stares intensely at his hand so he doesn't have to meet her searching gaze. "I just... want to help," he repeats weakly. His insides have gone all wibbly.

He clears his throat, snatching his hand away and meeting her gaze. "Is there anything I can do? Anything I can get you?" The Doctor resolutely ignores the thoughtful slant to her stare. He purses his lips a little, clasping his hands in his lap so he doesn't reach out for her again. It's become a habit.

Something in her face seems to close off again—it's very subtle, but the delicate shift in her features leaves the Doctor with the impression of an iron wall slamming down in between them. She grabs her comforter and yanks it back over her head, laying back down. It's all the answer the Doctor gets, and he sits there dumbly for a moment before vaulting to his feet like he's been stung.

"Right!" he says. "I'll just—see myself out, then?" It comes out as a question accidentally and he pauses at the door, one hand on the doorknob as he looks back into the room. No answer, and something inside him plummets. He lowers his gaze to the ground, looking disheartened. "Right." He closes the door behind him gently.

Clara peeks at the door. She huffs and turns her back to it, burrowing deeper into her blankets and stuffing a pillow over her head to block out the sound of him fleeing down the corridor.

:::

The Doctor paces in the console room. He's slightly stooped over, wringing his hands as he walks around and around the time rotor. The TARDIS makes supportive humming noises that he barely notices.

"What does she _want_ from me?" He stops to look up at the metal plates rotating, like the answer is written up there. "I don't know what else I can do—I offered to help, didn't I? I asked if she wanted anything, didn't I? I even wiped away her tears, for Guardian's sake! I don't know what else is left!" He resumes his distressed pacing, this time swiping a bewildered hand through his hair. "Food? Is she hungry? But only baby humans cry when they want food, and Clara's perfectly capable of retrieving anything she needs from the kitchens—you _have_ been letting her into the kitchens, haven't you?" He stops to cast a suspicious glance up at the TARDIS. Starving his companions isn't something she'd do, but it's the only thing he can think of.

He supposes he deserves the clonk on the head he gets when the floor heaves violently under his feet—Sexy doesn't like his implications. "Alright, alright, sorry! I should have known better, I know!" The Doctor pulls himself up by the console, rubbing his head with a grimace. "I just worry," he murmurs, and the TARDIS quiets to listen. "I don't know what's wrong, and I don't like seeing Clara sad. I wish there was something I could _do_!" Remorse turns to anger like a switch being flipped, and he smacks the scanner away from him hard enough that it spins all the way around the console. Just as quickly as it boiled up it disappears, and he braces himself against the console with a sigh. "Tell me what to do, Sexy. You're a girl, aren't you?"

The TARDIS gives a high trill and he winces. "No need to shout. What, you think I should go back?" He gazes up at the time rotor in bewilderment. "You saw what happened, she doesn't want my help!" The TARDIS trills again, and a burst of steam hits the Doctor straight in the face—he stumbles back, coughing and waving his hands. "Fine, fine, I'm going. But if she punches me I'm blaming you!" He throws the remark over his shoulder as he trudges out of the console room, slowly winding his way back towards Clara's room, his steps growing heavier and heavier as he gets closer and closer. He's got no idea what he's going to say or do, and his head spins until he finds himself at Clara's door with a dry mouth and a blank mind.

He swallows thickly before gathering his courage and knocking. The door falls inwards. The bed is empty.

The Doctor gives a start of surprise, his fist still suspended in the air, before leaning in to peer this way and that. He hears footsteps come up behind him and whirls around to see Clara staring at him with wide eyes, several books in her arms. She's pulled her messy hair up into a ponytail and her eyes are clearer than they had been, although her complexion is still ruddy.

The awkwardness is palpable. The Doctor shifts back and forth on his feet, his gaze darting everywhere but at her. "Uh, hello," he says.

"Hi," says Clara. She nods at the room behind him. "Could I get in there, maybe?"

"Oh!" He nearly falls to the side to let her pass. "Yes, of course, sorry!" Clara smiles at him a little as she passes and he returns it gladly. He follows her inside, peering over her shoulder at the books she's selected. "_Oliver Twist,_" he muses. "Good, but a little depressing. Have I told you about the time I met Charles Dickens?" He brightens.

Clara gives a small chuckle. "I figured you would have done." She turns around but he's still standing close, and everything seems to stop for a moment. She looks up at him and he down at her, and the Doctor shivers a little. He resists the urge to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, tightening his hands into fists behind him to keep them to himself, his knuckles bleaching white. Her mouth parts softly and his eyes dart to it involuntarily. "So, Charles Dickens?" she asks faintly, and it's like he's been jolted out of a spell.

"Hmm?" He blinks for a moment, dazed. "Oh! Right, yes! So, my companion and I—Rose, do you remember Rose? You've probably seen her..." He launches into the tale of the walking dead and describes everything in great detail to distract himself from the fact that the room smells like Clara.

She moves around him idly as he talks, busying herself with little things and tidying things that don't need to be tidied. He's got a feeling that she's the sort to busy herself when she's upset, and he understands perfectly because he's that way too. Eventually she runs out of things to do and sits down on the bed next to him to listen to his story. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, catalogues the way she smiles gradually and then like she can't stop, memorizes the way her laugh sounds when she gives it without meaning to, files the stardust in her eyes away into neat little packages near the back of his mind. But every story has an end, and when he reaches his there's a moment of suspended quiet in between them—it's a content sort of quiet, like they've been talking about meaningful things this whole time rather than just the Doctor babbling on about Charles Dickens.

The Doctor realizes that he had taken her hand in his without noticing, and he gives it a small squeeze. Clara smiles at him.

"Are you okay now?" he asks in a low voice.

She pauses, biting her lip. (His eyes flit to her mouth again.) "No," she replies honestly. "But I'm better. It just... hit me a little hard," she mutters, looking down at their hands. "It never really goes away, you know."

"I know." And he does. He pulls her in for a hug, partially because he feels like Clara needs it, partially because he doesn't want her to see his face and the myriad of emotions that play across it. She snuggles into him willingly and it hurts a little less. He kisses the top of her head. "It's alright, Clara."

"I know."

"I'm here."

"I know." Goosebumps pebble his skin where her breath brushes across it. "Thank you."

She presses a little kiss to his collarbone and he smiles into her hair. "Anytime." He means it, too.


	7. Time Pillows and Humany Heaters

_Humans are magnificent space heaters,_ the Doctor muses as he strokes his fingers through Clara's hair. She glances up from her book to smirk at him.

"And Time Lords are excellent pillows," she says, and he realizes he must have spoken aloud. Her eyes flick back down to her novel and he feels irritated at the book. Ridiculously, but irritated all the same. He doesn't like having to share Clara's attention.

Clara sits up suddenly, ignoring the Doctor's protests. "Scoot," she tells him, poking him in the shoulder, and, bewildered, the Doctor lies down. The couch is a bit too thin but Clara manages, wedging herself into the gap between the cushions and the Doctor's side. She sets her book facedown on his stomach before wrapping her arms around him and cuddling closer. He's not about to complain. "If you wanted my _attention_ you could have just asked," she murmurs playfully.

"I said that aloud?" he asks in surprise, and she hums. "A lot of that happening today."

"It's cute," she replies. "A little weird - frankly I thought it only happened in books - but cute."

"A side effect of keeping your own company for too long," he says, hiding his pleased smile by looking at the faraway ceiling of the library. He wraps one of his arms around her and closes his eyes. "You start to talk to yourself, just to fill the silence. A hard habit to break."

She's gone still against him, and for a moment he thinks he's said something wrong. Clara props herself up on one elbow, a palm splayed against his chest, and he opens his eyes to see a concerned expression flit across her face before it softens into fondness. The sight makes him feel vaguely giddy.

"I do the opposite," she says, tracing the buttons of his shirt with her fingers. "I internalize. It's a different sort of coping mechanism, I guess."

The Doctor watches her. He can't quite remember how to breathe. Clara doesn't do this - she doesn't _talk_. She's a lot like him in that respect. It feels like a privilege.

"I can't imagine that," he says faintly. She's always been outspoken; the image of Clara being quiet and subdued refuses to come. It just doesn't seem like her.

"Can't you?" She smirks, then it fades. "Yeah. For a while, after my mum died, I was… I was really distant. It was rough going for a while. Then I went to uni, and I sort of had to leave that behind. I'm better now."

He covers her hand with his, pinning them to his chest above one of his hearts. The only thing he can think to say is, "I am too." Her eyes dart to his in surprise, and she must see something in them because she smiles again. It's like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.

"Of course you are," she scoffs lightly, leaning down to kiss him, their joint hands wedged between them. "You've got me, haven't you?"

"Yeah," the Doctor says, the giddy feeling washing over him again. He nuzzles his nose into hers when she withdraws, a goofy smile spread over his face. Clara laughs.

"Now let me read my book," she says, settling back down against him and plucking her book from his stomach. "_Don't_ tell me how it ends," she warns when he opens his mouth. "That's the whole point of reading it, to find out."

"I wasn't going to say anything," he bleats indignantly, but he can't quite work up the willpower to pretend to be offended. He relaxes as Clara reads, closing his eyes.

He sleeps for the first time in a very long time, and for once no nightmares plague him.

Clara doesn't know what he's smiling about, but she has some notion when he murmurs her name. She hides her grin behind her book, shifting so she's nestled comfortably against the slumbering Time Lord.

Excellent pillows, indeed.


End file.
